Self Prophocised
by Natalilly
Summary: Basically a little leap into Torak's world as he's inclined to write the letter of warning to Belgarion, that appears in the back of the Ashabine oracles kept in Melcenea


Disclaimer: Are these things really necessary? I mean, this is FANFICTION.net. I didn't create any of the characters involved. I just used them in this snippet. I also directly copied a passage from 'Sorceress of Darshiva' But my reasoning for that will become clear if you can be bothered reading this.

_'Thou art but using Me!'_    
He screamed silently to the awareness that shared His mind. The book lay open in front of Him, and He stared blankly at the last pages, chagrined at what He had read- what He Himself had spoken during His long exile in Ashaba.   

_'Very perceptive._' The dry voice answered with it's usual twist of irony. '_I'm a little surprised that You hadn't seen it earlier. I've done everything aside beat You across the head with it.'_

Torak wanted to claw the snide presence from his head. But He knew the folly of THAT. 

_'Why?'_ He asked finally, slumping slightly over the little book _'Why wouldst thou need to destroy me so? Have I not done as you commanded of me? Wouldst thou cast me off like some garment no longer needed, and don another- another, if thy words that thou forced through me are true, who be no more then a mere Grolim? You wouldst shrug Me off for this Zandramas?' _

 _'It's necessary.'_  The voice said, it is same, dry dispassion. _'True, You can do a lot more then any minor Grolim, but it's not easy keeping You in line. The final confrontation needs a light touch, not an iron fist. And You DO have a habit of over doing it.' It sounded amused. Torak wanted to scream. The dry voice chuckled 'You seem a bit vexed. I'll leave You with Your own thoughts for a little while. Should be a bit of a novelty for You… At least here You can't do any damage.'_ And the presence was gone. 

Torak had not often had the chance to think without the Dark prophecy twisting everything that came into His head. He leant back on the large iron chair and mused. He was doomed. The prophecy He Himself had spoken clearly stated that. Even if He won at the City of Endless Night, He was still doomed to die. It didn't say that in that many words, but the mystery spoke of the choosing of a new God of Angarak- and of the Dark spirit fleeing at Cthol Mishrak.  It wasn't really a very promising piece of writing. 

He absently flicked through the pages, not actually reading them, but sorting back through his rather clouded memories. It hadn't always been this way. Admittedly, He HAD been the most vain and- as painful as it was to admit about Oneself, arrogant, of His brothers- but it hadn't, as it was now, been an all-encompassing thing. It had been nothing more then a slight character flaw, They all had them. Aldur's antisocialist lifestyle, Nedra's greed, Mara's emotionalism, Chaldan's thirst for battle, Issa's sluggishness and Belar's debauchery. He had been no different from the rest. Then the dark spirit came. At first it manipulated Him subtly. The sacrifices- the argument with UL in the high places of korim. But as it's hold on Him had gotten stronger, the more it managed to make Him do. 

The dark spirit was quite unlike the light spirit. Dark chose one vessel, and dominated it completely. The light spirit chose many and nudged events. Torak was a God, His will was enormous- but the will of the dark spirit was stronger. It twisted His mind, whispering, convincing Him of things that weren't there. It convinced Him that the Orb was corrupting Aldur; it convinced Him to steal it. By the time he had realized His mind was not His own, it was too late. The armies of the Gods marched on Angarak. Torak had managed to briefly wrench His mind away. He saw his children being slaughtered. He yearned to put and end to it, which meant surrendering the orb. His will and the will of the Voice clashed, and caused him to do both- save His children and keep the orb. He did the only thing he could in that circumstance. He cracked the world. 

And when He arose from the sea He had hurled himself into to quench the burning punishment the orb had administered, He was insane. The brutal crushing of His will were more then He could handle. 

And now He was here. It had been like waking up from a nightmare. He sat in front of the Ashabine oracles, for the first time in many years, free to think. He was horrified at what he read. The God that would supplant him, if the Dark won, would be evil- pure evil. He knew He Himself wasn't the most kindly of Gods- mostly due to the madness imposed from His will being crushed, but this God would make the universe another Hell. But what could He do? He sorted mentally though his alternatives. He could, of course, escape the fierce domination of the dark prophecy, but He squashed that idea immediately. He was still the arrogant God He'd always been, and fleeing was weakness. Who would He flee to anyway, that wouldn't suspect subterfuge?  So that was out of the question. He'd committed himself now, and if He died- so be it. At least he knew He had the option and refused. It was His decision. 

He sighed and stood up, pacing restlessly. He could think of only one option. He didn't like it, but He could see nothing else. He had to warn the children of Light. The problem was He didn't have time to find an agent of Light before his prophecy took up residence in His mind again - besides; he wasn't sure whether he'd be able to resist destroying them on the spot. He had to have another means. He flopped back down in his chair near the writing desk and sighed, He even stared at the blank page at the end of the oracles for about a minute before He realized what he was looking at, and the possibilities that went with it. If He was destroyed- Belgarion would take up the quest- and he would need help from ALL the mysteries- not just the Mrin, or the Darine… He sat up suddenly and dipped his quill in ink, pausing only to mentally refill the very low inkpot. He wrote quickly in the archaic, spidery lettering, using the language of the West. 

**Hail Belgarion,**

If it should ever come to pass that thine eyes fall upon this, then it means that I have fallen beneath thy hand. I mourn that not. I will have cast myself into the crucible of destiny, and, if I have failed, so be it. Know that I hate thee, Belgarion. And for hate's sake I will throw myself into darkness. For hate's sake I will spit out my last breath at thee, my damnèd brother. Know that we are brothers, Belgarion, though our hate for each other may one day sunder the heavens. We are brothers in that we share a dreadful task. That thou art reading my words means that thou hast been my destroyer. Thus I must charge thee with the task. What is foretold in these pages is an abomination. Do not let it come to pass. Destroy the world. Destroy the universe, if needs be, but do not permit this to come to pass.  In thy hand is now the fate of all that was; all that is; and all that is yet to be. Hail my hated brother and farewell. We will meet- or have met- In the City of Endless Night, and there will our dispute be concluded. The task, however, still lies before us in The Place Which is No More. One of us must go there and face the ultimate horror. Should it be thou, fail us not. Failing all else, thou must reft the life from thine only son, even as thou hath reft mine from me.

He re read the letter and dried the ink with a single thought, and closed the book. He reached out and summoned the nearest Grolim with His mind. He was in the library, two doors down, as soon as the God's thought touched the Grolim in question, he came running. The priest, He was pleased to see, was both prompt and had purple lining. 

'Oh my God.' The Grolim said, kneeling and prostrating himself. 

'Rise, Priest of mine.' He waited until the nervous looking priest was on his feet, and held out the black bound book. 'Thou shalt journey to the nearest port, dally not. I want this volume transported to the isle of Melcene. Thou will leave it with the custodians there, and thou shalt return. If thou fail, thou shalt feel the full weight of my wrath. If thou succeed, thou will be rewarded beyond thy mortal dreams. Now go. Thou will horse within the hour. Do not delay.' 

The Grolim stared, wide eyed at these peculiar commands, but wasted no time on gaping. He took the slim novella, and bowed

'It will be as You have commanded, oh my God. The book shall be on the isle within the week.' 

'Also, priest of the purple- thou will not open the book. Thou shall transport it only. If word comes to me that thou hast even opened the cover- thy life is forfeit.' He added on an afterthought

The Grolim swallowed very hard, and clamped his hand about the book. 'It will be as You command, oh my God.' And he left.   
Torak stared at the door for a little while, and strode to the window. Even as he had ordered, an hour later the Grolim rode out as if all the demons in Hell were on his tail. He turned back to his room, and took down another copy of the Oracles and again flipped absently through the pages

_'Well- you HAVE been busy. Making the best of your free time, I assume?'_ The voice had returned

He picked up a very sharp knife and began cutting into the pages of the prophecy in front of him- the word gave the meaning to the event…so if he changed the word….

His thoughts rambled on like this as he slowly destroyed pieces of the book, and the Voice of the Purpose laughed sardonically. 

The madness had returned.


End file.
